I'm not ok
by djembe
Summary: "Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs and closed his eyes. He had wanted to be finished by now but his hands were shaking too much. The blood made the needle slippery." Sherlock whump and h/c. No sexual violence.
1. chapter 1

Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs and closed his eyes. He had wanted to be finished by now but his hands were shaking too much. The blood made the needle slippery.

He had no time to clean up as the footsteps got closer. Sherlock took a deep breath as he heard the door open and John's footsteps stop suddenly.

"Christ Sherlock! What are you doing!"

"It's nothing, it's fine." Sherlock said, looking down at the thread that was now holding part of the gaping wound on his left arm together. Blood was smeared over the kitchen table in front of him.

John threw his coat off and strode across the room. Adrenaline kicking in fast. It was just a few weeks since their encounter with Culverton Smith. It was too soon and too raw to do it again.

He knelt down and took hold of Sherlock's right wrist, carefully taking the needle out of his hand.

"You're stitching up your own arm for God's sake. What happened?"

"It's fine, just a disagreement with someone went too far."

"Too far! You're bleeding all over the kitchen!"

John looked around at the large glossy drops of blood that surround them.

"You've had a massive blow to the head by the looks of it and all."

John turned Sherlock's wrist over, fingers searching the skin for a pulse. There was a fierce red line around both wrists, biting deep into the skin. He'd been tied up somewhere. Captive.

It was worrying that Sherlock didn't try to pull away. Sherlock had been out of sorts for a while but this was something else.

John looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes. He was pale and unsteady. Taking short breaths. His body was tense as though bracing against pain. There was a deep raw bruise on his temple from what must have been a real blow to the head.

"How much blood did you lose?"

"I don't know. Some."

"You need to go to hospital. Now."

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. John was taken aback by Sherlock's force. The last hospital visit was still incredibly vivid but had gone unspoken for weeks.

John softened his tone. "You need medical attention, there's a gaping wound in your arm to Christ's sake."

"You're a doctor. Can't you fix it?" Sherlock's expression was a mix of imploring and insistence.

John sighed, weighing up the fight it would take to get him to hospital against the risk of letting him stay.

"Fine" he said, though this situation was far from fine. "But I'm doing this properly. Don't move" he said as he got up to fetch clean water and pulled up a kitchen chair.

John said nothing more as he held Sherlock's bloodied left arm, examining the deep gash.

Most of the bleeding had thankfully stopped. Sherlock had cleaned the wound and the part he had already stitched was surprisingly neat, not that John would tell him that.

He dampened a cloth and carefully wiped up the blood from Sherlock's skin.

One hand rested gently on the inside of Sherlock's elbow to steady the slight shaking. A gentle hand resting over needles marks, both years old and much newer.

He took a new needle from the suture kit Sherlock had stolen from his medical bag. He continued where Sherlock had left off, stitching the wound. Piercing Sherlock's flesh with every incision.

Sherlock stared at the table, clenching his jaw but letting John work on his body. The only painkiller for now was shock and adrenaline.

John wiped away the last drops of blood when he was done and wound a bandage around Sherlock's arm, hiding the painful mess underneath.

With this completed he studied Sherlock's face. His eyes were unfocussed and he was sitting awkwardly.

John looked deep into Sherlock eyes, checking his pupils and trying to read the man.

He reached out to touch the deep bruise on Sherlock's face. It felt hot and was still swelling Sherlock flinched and avoided John's eyes but didn't try to move away. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" John asked gently.

"I'm fine." Sherlock replied, unconvincingly.

"Will you let me look?"

"I said I'm fine"

"You wanted me to fix you without having to go to a hospital. Or we can set off right now if you'd prefer. Your choice, one or the other." This one was an argument he was going to win.

Sherlock seemed to really struggle with weighing up the decision for a moment. Was having John take care of him really almost as bad as going to hospital? What did he have to hide?

Sherlock eventually resigned himself. "Fine, do what you need" he said, not moving to help in the process.

John took a deep breath and hoped Sherlock didn't notice it catching in his throat. He leaned forward and began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

As the first button came undone he saw the edge of a red mark on Sherlock's chest. John tried to keep the look of deep concern off his face.

Moving downwards each button he undid revealed more bruises on Sherlock's skin until the shirt laid open and his torso was revealed, practically black and blue.

Any weight Sherlock had put on during the years he had lived with John had now wasted away. Since his deliberate relapse his body had returned to its painfully thin state.

John stood and moved behind Sherlock to pull the blood soaked shirt off his shoulders, careful not to disturb the newly stitched arm.

As the shirt slid off Sherlock's back John saw that was covered in clear bruises too.

And for the first time John got a good look at the scars on Sherlock's back. Battle scars from the time spent in Serbia. Deep scars that John had only fleetingly seen before were now laid bare before him.

Sherlock was a mess.

With the shirt removed Sherlock sat unmoving as John touched his body. Running his hands over his chest and back and checking for any serious injuries which might lay underneath the skin.

He tried to ignore the scars, pushing images of gaping wounds on Sherlock's body to the back of his mind

John pressed his fingers around the darkest marks on Sherlock's ribs and Sherlock gasped in pain.

"Sorry" John said. "I think this is broken."

Not too badly, it would heal on it's own but it would be painful.

John patted down Sherlock's legs, checking for signs of blood or pain. He was grateful to find none.

Satisfied that the extent of the physical damage had been identified he sat back in the kitchen chair and wiped a hand across his face.

"What happened?" He asked.

"I'll be fine" Sherlock replied.

"That's not what I asked. I've just stitched up a defensive wound on your arm and it looks like you've had your ribs kicked in. We need to call Lestrade"

Sherlock shook his head. "He's the one who found me."

"Found! Where is he now, why did he leave you like this?"

"It's fine, John. I told him you'd be back"

"Yet you decided to start stitching yourself up instead of calling me?"

Sherlock didn't answer that question. The unspoken response hung in the air. He didn't want John to know. At least not all of it.

"It was the case."


	2. Chapter 2

**That morning**

Sherlock was already up and working on his laptop when John hurried into the kitchen. His hair was still damp from the shower.

John rummaged for something to eat without saying anything to Sherlock. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the uneaten toast he had given Sherlock yesterday sitting next to the laptop.

Sherlock's eyes were red, he'd probably been there for hours. John knew he hadn't been sleeping. He'd often hear Sherlock pacing his room or moving about in the kitchen.

But John hadn't yet broached it. He thought it would improve but if anything it was getting worse.

Sensing he was being gazed at Sherlock asked "Late again?"

"Nope" John replied quickly as he shoved an apple into his pocket. "Just cutting it fine."

"Mm..." Sherlock was already distracted.

"I'll be back late tonight. Try not to destroy the place won't you?" just as John spoke Sherlock's phone beeped and he glanced down to read the message.

"Don't worry John, Lestrade has a case for me" Sherlock immediately stood up to grab his jacket.

A good case would help, John thought. Get him out of himself for a bit.

"Have fun" John called over his shoulder as he ran down the stairs, he'd have to speak to him tomorrow. This couldn't go on.

Sherlock was out of the door two minutes later.

It was with some apprehension that Sherlock arrived at the location Lestrade had instructed. The disused sweet factory where they had saved two children from imminent mercury poisoning years earlier.

Lestrade and his team hadn't arrived yet so Sherlock took in his surroundings. Nothing stood out apart from the lack of a bunch of inept Scotland yard technicians failing to solve a crime.

The message had said there was a body here. Definitely something Sherlock would want to look at apparently.

The large metal doors were half open and he slipped inside without bothering to hang around for Lestrade.

While he waited for his eyes adjusted to the dim light he took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, ready to get stuck in to investigation mode.

Once his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he took a look around. His brain hadn't been sharp for a while. He had to push his mind to make sense of his surroundings and pick out the details.

Scuff marks on the floor. Scraped paintwork. Dented metal. Sherlock moved deeper into the factory looking for any sign of a body.

More marks on the dirty floor showed where a struggle had taken place.

He could smell blood. But saw no trace of it.

Where on earth was Lestrade?

Sherlock made his way deeper into the building, amongst broken pipework and dark corners.

Suddenly his arms were grabbed from behind.

A man. Well over 6 feet tall. At least 200lbs. Iron grip.

Sherlock instinctively kicked backwards, landing a strong blow to his attacker's shin. The man let out a grunt and dropped one of Sherlock's arms.

He swung around and threw a punch, connecting squarely in the attacker's jaw. But the other man was built like a truck and took the punch without much more than a growl.

Keeping hold of Sherlock's arm with one hand he reached behind his back with the other, groping for something Sherlock couldn't see.

He swung back around with a short metal pipe in his meaty fist. It came down on Sherlock's temple with a sickening crack. The pain shot through Sherlock's head in an instant and for a moment he was totally dazed.

He heard the clang of the pipe hitting the floor and skidding away. His knees gave way but he was held up by the vice like grip on his upper arm.

Through blurred vision saw the man reach down to the floor again. Another piece of metal, gnarled and more jagged than the first, was raised high.

This time Sherlock had time to raise his left arm in defence. But as the metal was slammed down a searing pain shot through his arm and blood spurted out. The sharp metal tearing right through his flesh.

Sherlock let out a cry of pain and tried to twist his other arm free.

He was no match for the much stronger assailant though and was helpless as he was thrown hard onto the floor. No sooner was he on the ground when a steel toecap was launched full force onto his ribcage.

All air was forced out of Sherlock's lungs and he clutched at his ribs with both arms. Blood was flowing freely from his forearm.

Sherlock heard the sound of metal scraping on the floor as one of the metal objects was picked up again. Just as his brain registered it his attacker brought the heavy metal pipe down onto his body with all his might.

There was a sharp crack as Sherlock felt something break inside him. He let out another cry of pain and tried to drag air into his lungs.

Before he could do any more than gasp his wrists were being grabbed. His body was dragged across the cold hard floor and he was hauled up with his hands just above his head.

He felt sharp plastic being wrapped around his wrists which tightened with a harsh zipping sound.

The zip ties cut into his wrists and he struggled to find the footing to hold his own weight up and ease the shooting pain in his ribs. His head was throbbing intensely.

He couldn't speak. He couldn't catch the breath to try to find out what was going on. He just sucked on as much oxygen as he could with the short painful breaths he could manage.

His brain was whirling. Who set this up? Why? How had he taken the bait so easily? Blood was seeping steadily from the wound in his arm, dripping from his elbow onto the floor.

The other man took a step backwards, seemingly satisfied at catching his prey.

"This is a gift from the East Wind"


	3. Chapter 3

**Baker Street**

"What case? The message you got from Greg?"

Before Sherlock could answer the front door downstairs was opened and slammed closed. Sherlock groaned as familiar footsteps took the stairs two at a time.

A moment later Lestrade came through the door. The look of surprise on his face when he saw Sherlock was matched by the look of anger on John's.

"Bleeding hell, Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, looking at Sherlock's bruised and bandaged body. "You said it was fine, just a scratch! Look at your face!"

John turned to him in anger. "And you believed him!? What's wrong with you? He's not fine. He's never bloody fine!"

Sherlock held his head in his hands.

"He WAS fine. He got in a taxi and said you'd be home to meet him"

"I came home and found him stitching his own body back together! He said you found him somewhere what on earth is going on?"

Both men turned to face Sherlock in the hopes of some explanation. He didn't lift his head from his hands. Waiting for it to be over so he could be alone again.

For a moment nobody spoke.

Eventually Lestrade leaned towards John and said under his breath "Is he ok? He's thin as a rake."

"He's never ok" replied John, anger fading back into concern. He knelt down in front of Sherlock again, laying one hand on a bare shoulder.

"Sherlock, mate, let's get you to bed. We can sort this out in the morning" he said quietly. Sherlock now looked totally exhausted.

Lestrade moved to protest, clearly wanting to find out what had happened. John shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks.

"Help me with him, will you?" John asked, pulling one of Sherlock's arms around his shoulder. Lestrade stepped forwards to help. He didn't know what parts of Sherlock's body were safe to touch, it all looked so raw.

He put one arm around Sherlock's slim waist and helped him to his feet. It didn't take much effort to help Sherlock to his bedroom, he didn't resist or protest.

Together they sat Sherlock on his bed and leaned him back against a pillow. Sherlock grimaced in pain and clutched his good arm around his ribs, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You need to stay upright for that broken rib. Greg, can you fetch some painkillers? In the bag on the kitchen table. And water"

Lestrade quickly left the room and John whispered to Sherlock. "Is everything going to be ok? You're not about to be arrested for murder or something are you? Any deranged psychopaths about to kick the door in?"

"We can leave the incompetent Scotland Yard to it for now at least." Sherlock answered in a quiet voice.

"God Sherlock what happened to you?" John muttered under his breath, knowing he wouldn't get an answer. He didn't just mean tonight.

The silence lingered over them for a long moment before Lestrade came back in the room and handed the painkillers to Sherlock.

"Take that and try to relax. I'll check back in a bit." John instructed him.

Sherlock swallowed the tablets as instructed as John and Lestrade left the room.

As soon as the door was closed Lestrade put a hand on John's arm and said through gritted teeth. "We need to talk."


	4. Chapter 4

With is hands above his head Sherlock couldn't relax his body. He had to stand, ribs bursting with every breath and knees on the edge of buckling. At least this position helped the bleeding to stop.

The man had left hours ago but he could still hear movements nearby. It wasn't over yet.

His hands were numb. His head was throbbing so hard he felt sick. Blood was caked into his skin.

Sherlock tried to make his mind click into gear. To work out a way out. But all the rooms in his mind palace were locked.

The sound of a door closing somewhere behind him made him brace for action. Footsteps got closer and Sherlock tried to turn his head to see, wincing with the pain the movement brought.

His attacker came ground and stood in front of him. Silent for a moment, eyeing Sherlock like a toy ready to be played with.

Sherlock's breath shuddered as tried to speak. "What are you doing this for?"

The man flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders, stretching out his muscles in preparation.

"I'm sure you'll work that out eventually" he said and spat on the ground.

Sherlock didn't get chance to say anything else before the man threw a fist into his stomach with full force. Sherlock let out a deep cry of pain and tried to twist his body away.

It was no use, he was trapped there like a human punching bag. It was clearly a lot of fun for his attacker to get out some pent up aggression on his target.

As the searing pain took over his body the wound on Sherlock's arm burst open again, showering the ground with blood.

Blow after blow landed. To his chest, his back, his head. His broken rib shot excruciating pain through his body with every heavyweight punch. The attacker was dripping with sweat he was working so hard.

Eventually, with one final punch to the head everything went blissfully black and Sherlock's knees finally gave way. His body slumping and his wrists taking his full weight with a jolt.


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade followed John into the kitchen. Blood was slowly drying on the table and John picked up a cloth from the sink to tackle the situation before Mrs Hudson saw it.

"You need to sort him out, John. I don't know what's going on but he's been picked up a few times in some pretty dodgy places. My guys know to call me when they find him but he's causing problems."

John stood still with the cloth in his hand. "Yeah, he's not been himself. He might have carried on using, I don't know. He won't talk to me though. It's a sore point after... What happened. And I don't want to push it. Is that how you found him tonight?"

"Switchboard got a call about noise from that old sweet factory. It took the guys a few hours to deal with some other stuff and get across there. They found Sherlock zip tied to a pipe"

John sat on the kitchen chair where Sherlock had been minutes before. Bleeding. He looked at the blood around him with a growing anger.

Lestrade continued. "They cut him down and called me to come and get him. By the time I got there he was trying to get out of there and causing a massive fuss. The coppers didn't know what to do. I couldn't arrest him for being a victim, so I let him get a cab home to you while I picked up the pieces."

John couldn't take it in.

"I thought he was ok, John. I had no idea he was this hurt"

"He said you sent him a message about a case. First thing this morning. He was going to meet you."

"I never sent anything, mate. But it's not that hard to send a message from someone else's number"

"Ok so it was a setup. Who by?" John wracked his brain. Could Moriarty have set something up before his death? It made no sense.

"I don't know. What about checking in with his brother?"

John thought for a moment then picked up the cloth and scrubbed at the table with vigour. "I'm not calling Mycroft until I've spoken to Sherlock." He'd go ballistic if John called Mycroft so soon.

"If you're stopping you can get the kettle on while I deal with this. We can talk to Sherlock together when he's more with it"

Lestrade obliged and a carefully stepped over the blood spots on the floor to get the kettle on.


	6. Chapter 6

Consciousness crept back slowly.

Sherlock could hear voices talking in urgent tones and someone's hands were on his arms and around his torso, easing the pressure on his wrists.

The voices became clearer as the throbbing pain seeped back in. They were talking about his body. He felt hands at his wrists and suddenly he was cut free. His fall was broken by the first pair of hands easing him to the floor.

They were talking to him. Was he ok? Could he hear them? Sherlock just moaned and felt blood rush into his hands as he wrapped them around his ribcage.

Then he heard the words that signalled it was all about to unravel.

"Call Lestrade"

Once the carnage in the kitchen was under control and tea was drunk John and Lestrade ventured back to check on Sherlock.

He was still in the same position. Not sleeping, just staring at the ceiling, tense as a spring.

Sherlock turned his swollen head to face the men as they came into the room and Lestrade hung back by the door. He wanted to hear every word but knew Sherlock wouldn't take kindly to an intervention.

John sat next to Sherlock and took in the marks on his still bare chest. A clear footprint. Marks that had been swelling for a few hours. He'd have to get an ice pack on it but he was fairly sure there was absolutely nothing in the freezer right now. The bandage was starting to seep with spots of blood already.

He knew Lestrade was doing the same, taking in the sight before them. Eyes on Sherlock's skin. He felt a protective feeling well up even though he knew Lestrade had seen Sherlock in worse positions.

"Are you ok?" he asked.

"It'll heal"

"No. I mean are you actually ok."

John's tone was deadly serious. The question hung in the air. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Because if you're not ok that's alright. We just need to know."

The whole situation had gone unspoken for so long. Not sleeping. Not eating. The dark cloud that hung over him as etched into his face and that was the hardest thing to see.

"I'm not ok" Sherlock said quietly, giving John goosebumps.


	7. Chapter 7

He'd have to pull himself together quickly. He couldn't get taken to hospital. Couldn't let John see what had happened. Think. Think.

Sherlock was up as soon as he was able to stand. Staggering towards the door with one hand supporting his ribs and the other dripping blood across the floor.

The police officers tried to stop him but he wouldn't let them touch him. His eyes wild. "Get back! You just stay back!"

Sherlock made it to his jacket by the door and threw it over one shoulder to hide the blood and the state of his body underneath as much as possible. The light was fading outside thankfully.

When Lestrade arrived he saw officers keeping a safe distance from a dishevelled looking Sherlock with a large bruise across his face.

He strode straight up to them. "Sherlock what on earth have you been doing!" Sherlock turned away to keep his body hidden and stood as straight as he could.

"Oh, Lestrade m'glad you're here. Kindly tell these officers I can go home will you?"

"What are you even doing here, have you been in a fight or what?"

"Just a small disagreement. I'm really the victim here."

"Sherlock there's blood."

"It's Just a scratch. Really. I just want to go home. John can sort it out"

He looked worn out. Greg looked at the officers who were shaking their heads. From their facial expressions they weren't happy about letting Sherlock leave. But they couldn't force him.

"John's at home?"

"Yes, yes. He'll do whatever it is he does. I'm fine. We can talk tomorrow."

Lestrade wasn't too happy but relented. "Get up to the road, I'll call a taxi to take you home while I sort out these two."

Sherlock nodded in thanks and walked slowly to the main road. He kept as upright as he could, not showing the pain that was coursing through his body until Lestrade and the others had turned to go back to the crime scene inside.

He wouldn't have long to get cleaned up before Lestrade would see what was inside and come looking for answer.

Something was triggered in the depths of his mind. A gift from the East Wind. It made him incredibly scared and he didn't quite know why.

Sherlock's words hit deep. It was incredibly rare for Sherlock to admit he needed help. But lying there his vulnerability was undeniable.

His marked chest hitched with shallow breaths. His head was swollen and blue down one side. His collar bones were prominent after months of not eating. His mind had been plagued by something unfathomable.

"What's going on?"

Sherlock swallowed. He was on the spot and he hated it.

"I, uh." Sherlock struggled to find the words but John fight interrupt. "I can't get back to myself, John."

John just nodded, unsure what that meant.

"After the hospital. I couldn't get my head back on track. Couldn't eat. Couldn't... stop."

A look of realisation came over John's face.

"Do you still keep a list?"

Sherlock shook his head.

Lestrade leaned forwards "A list of what?"

John shot him another look that could kill and Lestrade took a step backwards again.

"It's alright, John. A list of drugs, Greg. Turns out it's not something you can turn on and off on a whim, no matter the reasons."

John was suddenly filled with guilt and regret. Sherlock had got into this state for him and now he couldn't break out. The man before him was broken and it was his fault.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I should have realised things were this bad!"

"It's ok. I didn't want you to know."

"No. Well, I suppose you wouldn't." John realised he'd have to remind himself of that many times from now on.

"So what happened today? All of it."

Sherlock couldn't look at either of the other men. He felt too raw. "I'd never have gone if I wasn't..."

It didn't need an explanation but clearly Sherlock felt ashamed for letting it happen.

"It was one guy. He was big and I couldn't stop him. He tied my hands." John looked at the biting red marks on Sherlock's wrists. Tied tight. Even Sherlock in full health wouldn't have fared any better.

Lestrade took a tentative step forwards again "We can get a physical description to an artist tomorrow. The crime scene techs are already at the factory. They've recovered industrial zip ties and some metal piping that was used as a weapon. We will hopefully get some prints."

John's mind was instantly filled with the image of Sherlock pulling his wrists against their restraints, his body being beaten with metal. Then coming home alone and trying to sew himself up before John could see. Hiding both physical and mental wounds.

"What happened today, is that something to do with everything else that's been going on?"

"He said it was a 'gift from the East Wind'"

"From what?"

"It's something very very bad heading our way. I don't know what, I can't get into my mind palace. But there's something in there. If I could just get back to myself I could get in and work out how to stop it"

John's mind lingered on the word 'gift'. Someone had planned the whole thing. A precursor to something worse. Someone who knew Sherlock wasn't in the right mind to stop it.

"Ok so let's get Our Sherlock back again as quickly as possible. Heal. Eat. See if we can help with getting your head back. Then we can deal with this East Wind."

Sherlock nodded, not meeting John's eyes. He never wanted John to know what was going on. It was a pain worse than his body was currently enduring by far.

John stood up. Renewed by the though of having a plan in place, however threadbare. "We can start by changing that bandage, you're bleeding through it. Then we can work on you"

He stood up. "You did good, Sherlock. We'll get you back on track. You're going to be ok."

John stepped out of the room and Lestrade followed.

"John, is this PTSD or something?"

"Something like that. God I feel like the most selfish man in the world for not realizing how bad he was. I mean he wasn't quite himself but I didn't want to face pushing him to talk about it. Shit, Greg, god knows what he's been taking all this time."

"You know what he's like though. He'd never have told you if he hadn't gone through all that today. I didn't see it either. So Operation Sherlock is on."

John nodded. "I'm not going to let this beat him, Greg. I'll make sure he's alright, that's for certain."


	8. Chapter 8

Over the first week Sherlock's swollen bruises turned a sickly colour of yellow as they faded. John had stocked up on ice and held ice packs to Sherlock head and torso for as long as Sherlock would tolerate.

His broken rib became less painful but would take a few more weeks until it would be back to normal. For the time being any sharp movements caused a grunt of pain.

John carefully removed the bandages from Sherlock's arm to check for signs infection every now and then. It was breaking cleanly. The stitches held well and would soon be ready to be taken out.

John was saddened at the scars that would remain. A constant reminder of what Sherlock had gone through and the dark space he'd been in. Sherlock didn't seem to care either way but it would play on John's mind.

Mycroft supplied John with drugs to help ease Sherlock's cravings for harder substances but didn't come to the flat.

Sherlock was somewhat obedient when John told him to eat but it was clearly a struggle. It was as though his body was rejecting the intrusion. He'd take a few bites and not be able to face any more.

Now when John heard Sherlock up in the middle of the night he'd get up too and try to talk through whatever was in his head. It was certainly easier since Sherlock's defences had been broken down that first night. The door had been opened and John was determined not to let it slam shut again.

The road to recovery would be long but it was going in the right direction. Strength and a sense of direction were returning.

If he could only get back to himself fully before the East Wind arrived.


End file.
